


Show Me Your Teeth

by Basingstoke



Series: Unfinished WIP clearinghouse [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:23:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock fusion with Being Human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Me Your Teeth

John smoothed the curtains of 221B. "House-proud," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Why shouldn't I be?" John said. He kissed her cheek. "Two o'clock, right?"

"Yes."

"I'll hoover again, then, and see if I can scare the life out of those bloody mice."

"You're too good."

"We're in this together. Where would I be if you couldn't make ends meet?"

When two o'clock came, John lit the fire (remembering when it was a real fireplace before it was replaced by this plastic gas contraption in 1978; he still wasn't reconciled to the change) and listened as Mrs. Hudson answered the door. "Hello, dear! Now, the studio is downstairs, you wanted to see that." Sound of doors, keys. John could go and look but really, the ground floor didn't interest him. 221C had been the kitchen and servant's parlor when the building was new. 221A, Mrs. Hudson's flat, was located over the sandwich shop that had been the dining room, reached by what had been the servant's stairs, and had been the library, drawing room, and one bedroom when the house was new. 221B had been two bedrooms and a hall. By the time John lived there, the house was far from new, and one bedroom became a parlor. The hall became a bedroom with the addition of a wall. The communicating floor with 221A was blocked with a wall and the house became lodging rooms; then the kitchen was put in, in 1947, and rooms became flats. The single upstairs bedroom, majestic in scope, became two shabby small rooms.

Mrs. Hudson's voice knocked him out of his reverie. John checked the fire, checked the refrigerator, checked the sink and stove for marks. House-proud, but what did he have to do except look after the house? Besides, he'd been here a long time.

"Upstairs is 221B. Sitting room, kitchen, lavatory on the first floor, bedroom on the second."

The visitor preceded Mrs. Hudson up the stairs. Tall man, thin, dressed well as far as John could judge. He looked like he could afford the place. Well, he looked like a gypsy, with that curly dark hair and that scarf, but John believed that was a cashmere scarf. The visitor looked into the kitchen, then walked through to the sitting room.

"All modern appliances," Mrs. Hudson said. "That refrigerator is brand new. Only plugged it in yesterday."

The visitor looked out the window over the street. "Do the windows open?" Deep voice. Pleasant, John thought.

"They open inside, due to the grille," Mrs. Hudson said. "But not in January, thank you!" She laughed.

"And the furniture, included?"

"As much as you like. What you don't like I can move out."

The visitor sat on the sofa experimentally. "And what about the flatmate?"

John winked out. He came back to himself on the landing halfway up the stairs to his room, heart pounding as if he were alive.

"Oh, I have my own flat, dear!" Mrs. Hudson said.

The visitor walked out of the sitting room slowly and deliberately. "You smell like shag tobacco," he said to John.

John straightened his coat. "Where are my manners? Doctor John H. Watson, Esquire," he said, and walked down the stairs to extend his hand to the visitor. The visitor tried to shake his hand, but grasped thin air; John withdrew awkwardly.

"Are you on any drugs? The last person who could see him was that girl, you remember her, John?"

"Lisa, who did mushrooms. She talked to me but she didn't think I was real," John said.

"I'm not on any drugs--well, nicotine and strong coffee." The visitor smiled oddly. "But I observe closely. Mrs. Hudson, if I'm to have a roommate, I think half rent is fair."

She raised her eyebrows. "How about full rent and I let you use 221C during your monthlies? You're not the only one who observes," she said, tapping her nose.

The visitor laughed. John wrinkled his brow--monthlies? Woman's cycle? But then thought--monthly moon cycle. "No! A werewolf?" John asked. Some of Mrs. Hudson's cronies had mentioned the like, but he'd never met one before.

"Yes," the visitor said.

"And if you widdle on the floor, I'm taking it out of your deposit," Mrs. Hudson said.

"I assure you, I'm entirely housebroken." The visitor looked at John. "I play violin when I'm thinking, would that bother you?"

"The trombone player was a bit much, but I like violin," John said.

"I suppose biting you during my time isn't an issue, but I may accidentally walk through you if you remain incorporeal. Though--you still smell of tobacco, so I might not." The visitor flared his nostrils. "I think we'll suit, Mrs. Hudson."

"You don't know a thing about me. What if I make the walls bleed?" John said, not quite sure why he was protesting.

The visitor smiled. "Can you? I'd love to see it."

John laughed, dropping his head. "No."

"Not on my carpets! Two months rent as a deposit, pay ahead each month on the first, and you can move in as soon as you like."

"Today! I'll keep the furniture. Back in a dash." The man raced down the stairs, leaving John and Mrs. Hudson looking at each other.

"But what's his--" John started to ask her.

"Sherlock Holmes!" the man shouted up the stairs. Then the front door slammed.

*

"You're very timid for a military man," Holmes said when John ventured back downstairs. He held the cup of tea.

"I'm fairly average for a ghost," John said. "Would you mind if I smelled that?"

"Not at all. I suppose drinking is out of the question."

"Rather."

Holmes set the mug on the coffee table and John picked it up and inhaled. He smiled.

"Not very old, you're not gray yet, but not young," Holmes murmured. "Thirty… seven?"

"Thirty-nine." John looked at him. "No need to flatter me, Mr. Holmes. I can see my own reflection."

"I was attempting to compensate for the lack of sunscreen. You're brown; recently returned from overseas, then."

"Yes," John said. "I never mentioned I was a military man."

"A guess, but a good one, I gather?" John nodded. Holmes continued, "Usually I can tell a man's life story in the time we've spent, but your cues are long of out date. It's an interesting puzzle."

"Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. A year's honorable service in Afghanistan and I return to die here." John sat the mug down again. "Thank you. I'm afraid my request wasn't quite the thing, but it's been some time since I spoke to anyone other than dear Mrs. Hudson."

"Interesting woman," Holmes said.

"Ears like a bat," John whispered. Holmes smiled.

"Poison?" Holmes asked. "Or illness?"

John blinked.

"There's no mark of violence on you."

"I see. I only show the marks of death if I wish to, and I don't wish to, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please. We are flatmates, after all."

His Christian name. Intimate in John's day. Ordinary now. "John, then," he replied. "If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with Mrs. Hudson."

"Of course."

John disappeared and reappeared at the top of the stairs in 221A. "Knock knock," he said.

"Come in, Dr. Watson! How is it going?"

"I'm exhausted."

Mrs. Hudson clucked and patted the sofa beside her. "Come sit down. Time for that music show!"

*  
John didn't sleep, of course (or tire, or feel hunger, or feel clean or dirty), so he had a great deal of time to pursue his interests.

He was still a doctor. Though long (one hundred and thirty years) past practice, he had a keen interest in the evolving modern understanding of medicine. Sherlock's books proved to be a treasure trove.

And then, of course, there was the computer.

He knew what a computer was, of course. He'd seen them all over the telly. The three previous tenants had all had one. But they turned it off when they were done, and Sherlock didn't, and so during the long mornings when Sherlock preferred to sleep (sometimes up in his bedroom [the bed a relic of Andrew Morris, tenant from August 1992 to January 1993 (John hadn't liked him)], mostly on the sofa [left behind by Sofia Andreevna, 1971-1982 (John had liked her quite a lot)]) John was free to explore the Internet.

YouTube was _remarkable_. He'd seen clips on Rude Tube on the telly, but actually seeing the raw flood of videos--he didn't know how to react. Half of him wanted to tell the young ladies to put more clothes on, but the other half, the half that had gambled and boozed and fired at enemy soldiers, was captivated.

"Can you go outside?" Sherlock asked. The computer fell through John's fingers to the desk.

"I can," John said. "I don't. My apologies for the intrusion."

"I was asleep. Just don't bother my experiments and we're fine."

"Oh, the hand experiment was contaminated."

Sherlock's brows snarled with instant rage. "Mice," John said swiftly. "They--well, you'd better come and see."

There was a dead mouse in the sink. Also in the sink was a severed hand, resting in four inches of tepid water. "It came down to drink," John said, "and they ignore me until I touch them, and then, well, their hearts stop, and I couldn't keep hold of it."

"Unfortunate," Sherlock said. He retrieved a mesh strainer and retrieved the mouse from the water. "But not disastrous. The effects of standing water on decaying flesh will not, I think, be affected by the addition of a mouse." He frowned. "And if it is, that's interesting too."

"Most certainly," John said, smiling. "Shall I make you a cup of tea?"

"Please."

Sherlock watched him closely as he moved mug, kettle, sugar, milk, and tea. "You leave no fingerprints," Sherlock said.

"No fingers," John said.

"But you're moving things with your hands."

John put the mug down. "Touch me and see."

Sherlock reached out. The fine hair on the back of his hand raised as his body interacted with the place John occupied, but there was no hesitation, nothing to indicate that anything was actually there. Nothing was. Only a ghost. John could feel Sherlock's hand inside the place where he stood like a draught on a cold night, but nothing solid, nothing he could manipulate, not like a mug or a teabag. "And this kills mice?" Sherlock said.

"I think it stops their hearts. I'd feel sorry for them but that they make such a mess of the skirting boards."

*

John absented himself when Sherlock had company, but he could feel the changes in the flat that happened then. No mugs moved--Sherlock was a terrible host--but books moved and papers were added and the phone and computer buzzed with activity. 

"May I inquire what you do for a living?" John asked. 

"Didn't Mrs. Hudson tell you? I'm a consulting detective. DI Lestrade can't make heads or tails of this, so he brings me in. Here, you're a doctor, what do you think?" Sherlock tossed a sheaf of photographs his way. 

They showed a body with a severed arm. John took a moment to marvel at the remarkable clarity, then rendered his judgment: "I would stand proud, were this my work." 

Sherlock snapped upright in his seat, his expression incredulous. Then comprehension dawned. "Army doctor. You removed quite a few limbs." 

"Some dozens, surely. This work was quick and neat. You see the tourniquet was applied here." 

"There's no tourniquet in the picture," Sherlock interrupted. 

"But there is the mark of the tourniquet above the knee. Observe the lividity."

Sherlock smiled. "How useful you are." And then he was gone, grabbing his coat and disappearing from the confines of the house. John tidied the photographs, then walked through the dividing wall to Mrs. Hudson's flat. 

"You should go out with him some time. You're not stuck here!" Mrs. Hudson said. 

"But my heart is here," John said, smiling at her. 

"My head will not be turned by a dead man! For shame! And me a widow woman!" She shook her head. 

"You killed your husband!" John pointed out. 

"Cheek!" 

Her husband was a beast. John applauded her decision, and she knew that. They must have had this conversation a hundred times. "John," she said. "I'll be here forever, but he won't." 

John shook his head. She shook her head back. 

*

It was strange and new, being _seen_ all the time in his house. Sherlock watched him polish the fireplace and John became self-conscious of the scrubbing brush and bucket; they weren't real, after all. He supposed he could use his sleeve and it would have the same effect of willing the dirt away. 

But one cleaned fireplaces with a brush and bucket, so that's what John used. 

"Why love this place so when it's the place where you died?" Sherlock asked. 

"Can't you deduce it?" John asked. 

Sherlock threw a crumpled piece of paper at him; John caught it and threw it in the bin. "Don't rub salt in my wounds," Sherlock said. John chuckled. 

"I don't know if it's love," John said. "I don't love my shoes, but I keep them shined. I don't love my cuffs or collar, but I keep them starched. Pride."

"Hm. Without a body, the house becomes the container for your sense of self. Interesting."

"You could learn something about pride, lounging around with holes in your shirt. Disgraceful." 

...


End file.
